


Heavy, soft

by NienteZero



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Catharsis, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, fatigue, indulgent comfort, very sad illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 10:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19721557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NienteZero/pseuds/NienteZero
Summary: Illya finds the weight of emotions taking a physical toll. Gaby and Solo take good care of their moody Russian.





	Heavy, soft

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a prompt from a dear friend who is Going Through It right now. As I have also been Going Through It, it was immensely cathartic to write.

The sun was shining. That was a statement of fact. Illya lay on his side in bed, indifferent to the fact of the sun shining.

It was a late spring morning in London during a particularly rainy spring. The sun shining should have sparked some feeling. Something. If not pleasure, perhaps alarm at how the morning was slipping away from him.

He stared at the hands of his watch, propped up on his bedside table.

If he got up now he'd have time to shower and shave, eat a quick breakfast, and drink coffee before going in to UNCLE headquarters for yet another day of mission debriefings.

His arms felt like lead weights. He shifted in bed. His whole body felt heavy. Immovable. It felt improbable that he would ever move it. It felt like a thing to be lifted up by some external force, not like an intrinsic part of himself.

The hands on the watch kept moving. The second hand sweeping around to bring another minute past. And another. 

The room was cold. That should mean something. Either the comfort of a cool, crisp waking, or a shivery desire for more blankets or to get under the hot water of a shower.

Nothing. His body could be hot or it could be cold but it was just there, heavy. Useless. 

If he got up now he'd have time to wash off quickly and shave and have coffee.

Coffee would be good. Illya thought about the pleasure of the first sip of coffee in the morning. He thought about it, but the idea remained disembodied. Belonging to a different world, a different person. If he thought hard he could remember that coffee had been pleasurable. Today it just seemed like a thing that might be useful in shifting this lump of a body.

Lump of a useless body. Why was he so tired? He'd gone to bed early the night before. Well before the cowboy or Gaby were ready to go home for the night. It had been half pleasant and half vaguely irritating to be with them while they enjoyed a night on the town. Well, he'd picked at dinner and made excuses, but they'd been enjoying this break from action.

Illya stared at the watch. Really. He must move now. He must at least shave and comb his hair before dressing for headquarters. Never mind coffee. He must rouse his useless body and get on with it.

The second hand swept. The minute hand ticked. He rolled over to his other side, turning his back on its nagging face. His head felt wooly. It was absurd. He felt absurd. Why couldn't he just drag himself out of bed? He wasn't sick, he wasn't hurt. He could pass a physical with top marks. 

The letter from home. He was too old to feel this sad over something he should have understood would happen. Nothing changed; he was a fool to think things had changed. To think that Kruschev denouncing Stalin and the waves of broken people going home free from the gulags meant that things were safe. That people were safe. A fool and a soft hearted idiot to care. And to care and to feel things he shouldn't feel were not excuses for this malady. This hypochondria. Malingering. English had many useful words for how useless he was being.

Illya closed his eyes. He knew that if he rolled back over and looked at the watch it'd tell him that he should be up now, showered, shaved, dressed, professional and ready to put in a day's work of analyzing and examining every move of their last affair. He felt as though nothing could matter less than him sitting next to Gaby and Solo at the circular table Waverley favoured and dragging through his sluggish brain for pieces of useful information. What did it matter? What was any of it worth?

Idiot. Sentimental. Lazy. He'd lost that edge of sensible fear that kept one alive. He might tease Solo about the decadent West, but certainly there was some truth. Everything too soft and easy to get away with, No discipline. 

He pushed himself up onto one arm, then with infinite tiredness moved to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. If he dressed now and didn't stop to shave he'd still be late.

Five minutes passed sitting with his head in his hands before he staggered to the small sitting room in the serviced flat assigned to him by UNCLE. He sat on the sofa. This was not working. Here he was still in his pajamas with the watch in his hand ticking resolutely on to eight a.m. By now he should be passing through the security checks into headquarters.

Illya glanced toward the kitchen. It just seemed too much bother to fill the percolator and get it heating on the stove just so he could have coffee. He wasn't even sure he wanted coffee. He turned back toward the bedroom. He should get dressed. 

Illya stood in front of the small wardrobe with one door open, looking at his trousers. Grey or black? Black? Grey? Why? There were too many steps between him and leaving the flat for a day that already felt utterly exhausting.

What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he do this simple thing? 

The red anger that he usually felt so quickly was muted down, a dim muddy brown that barely stirred in him. It would have been welcome. Any thing that spurred him to motion rather than this dull, lethargic sense that everything required too much of him.

By the time that Illya had dressed - black pants and a black turtleneck - it was well past when he should have been in the earliest meeting of the day.

The telephone in the living room shrilled. 

Illya's head ached. He debated just letting the phone ring. After three rings, he sighed and picked it up.

"LTR 4711," Illya said, answering with his number by UNCLE protocol.

"Oh, Illya, I'm glad I reached you," the warm tones of Lisa, Waverley's secretary, sounded through the line.

"Good morning Lisa," Illya said. He thought his voice sounded fine, normal.

"We're just a trifle worried about you," Lisa said, "you know how the old man is for punctuality."

"I'm sorry," Illya said. But he couldn't think of what to say next.

"Oh, dear," Lisa said, "you sound as though you're feeling quite poorly, I shall let Mister Waverly know. Do you expect that you will be back to work tomorrow?"

Illya paused. He hadn't expected this. He wasn't sure what he'd expected. Bad spycraft if he was so transparently not right that Lisa thought he was ill.

"Yes," he said, "yes. I will be promptly in the office tomorrow."

He barely noticed the niceties of the end of the call, but when he'd hung up he was once more at a loss. Not needed today, not expected to show his face at work. He'd truly and spectacularly made a fool of himself over what? Nothing. In this world, how could anyone, how, especially, could he, afford to be shaken by a little bad news?

Illya's legs folded under him and he sat with a thump on the couch.

He could feel sorrow trying to press up from his chest, trapped like a lump, making it hard to breathe.

It wasn't clear how much time passed before Illya's tired reverie was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. He shifted, but made no move to open it. 

It would have to be Gaby or Solo. They lived in the same building. Any one else would have buzzed from outside of the security doors downstairs. Those two should be at headquarters.

Perhaps if he ignored them they'd leave. Illya wasn't sure if he felt good or bad about that. Ridiculous to be seen like this. But part of him wanted the feeling of being seen, and liked, that Gaby and Solo gave him every day.

The knocking persisted, followed by the unmistakable soft scratch of Solo's lock picks. Irritation pricked at the back of Illya's neck but refused to stir to anger.

"Peril, are you in here?" Solo said, pushing through the door with Gaby at his heels.

"There you are! Lisa said you were ill," Gaby said. She eyed him critically.

"Well, you don't look on top form," Solo said. He looked around the room, taking in various details.

"I tell you what," he said to Gaby, "I'll go and put on the coffee, and you find out what's wrong with our Peril."

"I'm not a nursemaid," Gaby snapped back reflexively at being told what to do.

"Would you rather be the coffee girl?" Solo smirked. 

"Fine, fine," Gaby said, shooing Solo toward the kitchen.

She perched next to Illya on the couch, the back of her hand to his forehead.

"You don't feel warm," she said, "aren't you going to say good morning?"

"Good morning. I am fine. Just tired. You can go now." Illya said.

"Pfft, some gratitude. Well, we don't have anywhere to go. Waverley said if we were just going to sit and fret we might as well come here and see how you were."

Her eyes swept his face even as she spoke lightly. No, he definitely wasn't fine. Not physically ill perhaps - no redness around his nose, or congestion, no clutching his stomach, not even a particularly deep pallor.

But his face. Bags under his eyes, he was certainly tired. But beyond that. Even when Illya was serious there was a vividness to his expression, his eyes changing from soft and indulgent to hard and dangerous, or sharp with concentration. Today, they just looked empty. He looked lost, like a child.

The sound of the stovetop percolator filled the small flat with its pleasant snorts and gurgles. Solo had a way of coaxing a brilliant odor and flavour out of even the third rate coffee sold in England. In his own flat he had, somehow, always a supply of coffee from Italy, but even without his secret stash he had the touch.

Illya's stomach grumbled.

Solo stepped out of the kitchen with a little tray containing three cups of black coffee and a plate of toast with cherry jam on it. Cherry jam that he'd personally bought Illya, weeks ago. He had been slightly chagrined to find the jar still unopened, but that was Illya. Not given to creature comforts.

Coffee and toast made things marginally better than no coffee and no toast, Illya conceded. Solo had discreetly pulled the conversation over to light bickering with Gaby over his choice of socks in relation to his choice of shoes and tie, letting Illya drink the coffee and eat the toast without having to think of what to say about why he was sitting here, useless, with gravity sucking him down into the cushions of the sofa. He'd have to say something soon, though, and he didn't know what.

Solo glanced around the room again, his eyes lighting on an open envelope with a letter crumpled next to it on the small table near the front door.

"Bad news from home?" he murmured.

"Yes," Illya said through his teeth. Please let Solo leave it at that. 

To Illya's surprise, Solo did leave it alone. 

"You look terrible. Let me run along to my flat for a few things and then we'll run you a nice hot bath and you can have a shave. Gaby, why don't you pour Peril another cup of coffee. I'll be back in just a moment."

Gaby looked like she'd very much like to ask about the letter from home. But she followed Solo's lead.

Solo came back a few minutes later bearing a woven straw tote which he set down in the kitchen. He pulled a small jar from it.

"Epsom salts," he said brightly, "these will perk you up."

He bustled through the flat and Illya heard the bath running. Illya thought about putting up a fuss about being treated like a child, but it didn't seem worth the effort. 

Gaby pulled Illya to his feet and pointed him in the direction of the bathroom. It seemed easiest to just go, and somehow it did seem as though the feeling of the hot water with the bath salts would be something, a sensation, something other than the weight dragging him down.

He closed the bedroom door and stripped down. He still had some sense of modesty around Gaby, but Solo was a man and had been a soldier, so it didn't bother Illya to be naked around him.

"There you are, nice and hot," Solo said, turning the bath taps off. Steam rose fragrantly, a woody and refreshing scent. The epsom salts must have had an oil in with them. Illya let Solo help him into the tub, sinking down into the water.

"Why aren't you pestering me to know what's going on?" Illya asked as he lay back in the water. "It's not like you to be so considerate, Cowboy."

He was being deliberately provocative, somewhat unnerved by Solo's quiet help.

"Don't worry," Solo said sardonically, "I'm almost certainly just softening you up for something."

"Mmm," was Illya's only reply as he closed his eyes and stretched out. He could feel the hot water tingling with epsom salts begin to ease his tight muscles. The flats for UNCLE agents weren't luxurious, but they did have nice big tubs for the benefit of injured agents.

He heard the door close and felt a small relief to be out of Solo's scrutiny. The tightness around his chest was still there; the choking emotion that wouldn't move or let him move. He let out an involuntary whining sound, caught himself, and clenched his teeth together. No, no weakness like that. What must his partners already think?

They must believe him ill to be fussing like this. Perhaps that was all right, if they just thought that he'd acquired some common sickness on one of their missions. It still felt strange to be fussed over so, but he knew from past experience that they would fuss if he were hurt. In their own, special, strange ways.

Dressed in a fresh pair of pajamas after the bath and a shave, Illya was surprised to find Gaby waiting with her sleeves rolled up in his bedroom.

"My turn," she said, "you look far too tense. On the bed, please, face down."

It was her dictatorial voice. The one that meant arguing would turn into fighting. Illya sighed. He was twice her size and a grown man, but he was probably about to do exactly as he was told. He was still feeling warm and sleepy from the bath.

He lay on top of the covers wondering what he had gotten himself into as Gaby climbed onto the bed and straddled his waist.

A soft curse escaped him as she dropped her weight onto one elbow between his shoulder blades and started working out a knot there. 

"Just be a good Russian and lie still," Gaby said, settling in for what Illya felt was going to be a very firm massage. "unless you want me to stop."

"No," Illya groaned, "it's good."

He didn't think he'd be able to stand gentle touches right now. He'd have split right in two, the mass of pain inside him breaking out. But the little mechanic's brusque and elbow-filled approach, her strong grip on the back of his shoulders, that was almost magical.

Illya was asleep before Gaby was finished working on his shoulders and back. It was a restful sleep, untroubled by the dreams that had beset him the previous night, a night of tasks he couldn't finish, people he couldn't save, dark images and startled, sudden wakings. Now his rest was dreamless and light.

The next time Illya woke, it was much easier to get out of bed. For one thing, he was beginning to feel rested. For another, he could hear his two partners rustling around in his flat, and he had no intention of letting them stay unsupervised for longer than he had to.

Gaby was sitting on his couch reading a car magazine, but she got up as soon as Illya came into the room.

Illya bridled at her fussing as she pressed him to stretch out on the couch.

"Here, the first thing I saved up for in England. It's made of merino, not old scratchy wool," Gaby said, as she draped a soft, light blue blanket with satin binding over his legs.

"I'm not a child," muttered Illya, shoving the blanket petulantly.

"I didn't say you were," Gaby shot back.

"You know I'm not actually sick," Illya said, "you don't have to be so nice."

Gaby sighed loudly.

"You missed work without calling anyone. You're obviously not all right."

Illya clenched his jaw.

"It's nothing," he said stiffly, "it's foolish and there's no excuse."

"Do you think you're being a weakling?" Gaby asked.

Illya looked away, ashamed.

"Then you must think I'm terribly weak," Gaby said in a scornful tone. "seeing as I felt ill for ages after Rome."

"I didn't know-" Illya's eyes lit with concern.

"Of course you didn't, I knew you boys would be silly about it," Gaby said, "Because you insist on thinking that everyone has to be stoic and silent. 

"Well, you don't have to be. You don't have to talk about whatever it is," she waved her hand dismissively, "but you are allowed to feel rotten about things, just as much as anyone is."

Illya pressed his eyes tightly closed. Too much. It was too kind to say that, to forgive him for this lapse into exhausted pathos.

"Here, move your legs."

Gaby poked and prodded Illya until she'd settled herself on the sofa with his legs lying across hers. She patted his knee fondly.

The door from the kitchen swung open. Illya heard Solo's voice.

"Lunch will be ready in ... oh, I see." 

Illya heard Solo bustle in the kitchen and then his steady steps. He couldn't open his eyes; he was certain that when he did he would start crying and not stop. He certainly couldn't do that. He didn't know how much of their conversation Solo had heard, but he couldn't face him.

Solo knelt next to the couch and took Illya's hand between his, rubbing it gently.

"Gaby's right, you know," he said, "none of us has to be perfect. It's quite all right, Peril. It's safe here. You're our partner. It doesn't matter what happens. After all, we don't think Gaby's fragile, do we?"

Gaby kicked out with one of her feet, catching Solo hard on the arm.

"All right, all right," he said, sounding not terribly remorseful for his crack, "me too. I wasn't... I have had times when... times when I struggled. Some of which, I don't mind admitting, would have been harder without you."

Solo still couldn't mention the things that had happened in Vinciguerra's nasty little room with Uncle Rudy. He shuddered thinking of how little control he'd had, how much he'd needed Illya to come for him.

"That's right," Gaby chimed in, "you forgive us our weaknesses but we're not allowed to help you?"

Illya bit down on his lip, but he couldn't contain it. The thing that was choking him, the feeling that he had swallowed glass, it all wanted to come streaming up and out under this unwarranted kindness from his partners.

The first sound to break from his lips was an agonized gasp. He panted, his breathing shallow and erratic.

Gaby leaned forward, wrapping her arms around Illya's legs. Solo kept gently rubbing Illya's hand between his. The breathing changed to deep gasps and then, like a sudden summer thunderstorm, wracking sobs, unintelligible words coming between them.

He felt like it would never stop, this wailing that was tearing him apart, this anguish rent from inside him. Solo and Gaby were murmuring reassuring things to him, their voices warm and sweet.

In time the sobbing lessened, the feeling that he was breaking in two and would never be able to stop this deluge subsided into something easier, something like relief. Sorrow. Shaking. But not a body broken wide open with all the viscera on the outside.

Solo pressed a clean handkerchief into Illya's hand.

"I'll be right back," he said.

Gaby didn't stop her comforting touch or soft words - in German now, like she was remembering things her mother had said when she was a child.

Solo came back with a tumbler of water and a shot glass of vodka. Illya sat himself up to toss back the shot. He felt drained, but the choked off feeling had shifted and lightened.

"Thank you," he said, voice hoarse from crying, "I don't want to talk about it. I'm sorry."

"Quite all right," Solo said, "you know where to find us if you do want to talk about it."

"It might be that I have similar things I'd like to talk about with you," Gaby said, "if you ever want to."

Illya let that thought drift in his head. Yes, she might, of all people, understand. Not now, not today. Today that would be too much. He couldn't stand to form the words, to talk about the sorrows, the agonies. But perhaps some day. Perhaps they'd pour vodka for each other and tell the least terrible of the stories.

Not now. Not today. It was too much already to have opened up as far as he had. Illya could smell something delicious that Solo had cooked for lunch, and the blanket Gaby lent him was soft and warm, but it was too much to still have his partners here, warm and solicitous. He felt less heavy, but now he felt too wide open, too exposed. He just wanted to sink back onto the sofa and rest. Alone.

"Are you two going to lounge around here all day?" Illya said, putting a growl he didn't really feel into his voice.

Solo gave him a long, penetrating stare. There was something of a smirk that made Illya feel uncomfortably seen.

"Not at all, Peril. I, personally, have many important things to see to. You'll find gnocchi and ragout in the kitchen when you're ready for your luncheon. Gaby, shall we?"

Gaby shoved Illya's legs off her lap roughly. She stood up and loomed in close over him.

"Fine, we'll get out of your hair," she said, "but if you're feeling like this again we'll show up and sit on you until you treat yourself like a normal person."

It did not sound like an idle threat. Something warm stirred in Illya at these partners of his, who'd go away when he needed them to, but who could be trusted to know he wanted them to come back.

**Author's Note:**

> As the author, I do happen to know the root cause of Illya's sorrow. But that tight lipped so-and-so did not want to share it at this time. It's not important, anyway.


End file.
